


No Light, No Light

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Cage Trauma, Comfort Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Time, Gentle Sex, Guilt, Guilty Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Incest Kink, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Sensory Deprivation, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6600886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam won't say what happened, during the time they were apart. All Dean knows is that Sam is always close enough to touch, even at night. Dean's a terrible, despicable person and he knows it, but his fantasy is coming true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

> I've started blatantly stealing my titles from songs. This one happens to match up with a [music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQU5jdOUoxA) I made. Basically I've heard this song in 3-second increments, four hundred times. It is so good, you guys.

 

 

For the first three hours, Dean thought maybe Sam was just out on one of his ridiculous early morning runs. He checked the room for a note and didn’t find one, but Sam probably wasn’t expecting him back until midmorning anyway.

He took a shower, packed a couple dozen salt rounds, watched some shitty Spanish soap opera, considered finding a laundromat. No Sam.

 

Around lunchtime, he started to get suspicious. He called Sam’s phone, only to be rewarded by a muted buzzing from somewhere in the room.

Sam’s phone was under the bed, far back against the wall, Dean’s caller ID flickering dimly from behind cracked glass. Dean’s eyes narrowed. There was a smear of yellow powder along the side of the device. He fished it out, trying not to get the powder on his hands.

In the light, he recognized it immediately. The smell was just verification of what he already knew- sulfur.  

 

 

It was a rookie mistake and Sam knew it. He’d been expecting Dean and had opened the door without checking.

He hadn’t done anything that stupid since he was eight.

The minute the knob turned, something hit the door from the other side, slamming it into the bridge of his nose and sending him stumbling backwards. He didn’t grab at it, didn’t check for blood- he accepted that it was broken and moved on, falling quickly into a defensive stance and facing the intruders.

There were three of them, or at least, he saw three. They moved fast, black eyes and feral grins telling him everything he needed to know.

He expected knives, guns. He scanned his peripherals, looking for something long that he could use to keep them at a distance. The demon blade was in the nightstand drawer. He had to keep them back long enough to reach it.

The lamp by the bed seemed like his best bet and he backed toward it, not taking his eyes off the intruders. They advanced on him slowly, empty grins and black shark eyes. He didn’t bother with the banter. It was too early.

His foot hit the wall and he reached back, fishing blindly for the metal pole that held up the lamp. His hand closed around it and he pulled, leveling it and swinging.

The cord caught in the wall and held, and the pole fell to segments in his hand.

Stupid cheap shitty ikea piece of _crap_ \- he had time to think, and then they were on him, forcing him down onto the rough carpet. He braced for the feeling of a knife in his back, across his throat, but it didn’t come.

They wrenched his arms behind his back, one of them straddling his hips and keeping him down. He writhed, trying to buck them off, and they responded by jerking his wrists further up. The joint in his shoulder groaned and threatened to pop the socket, and Sam stopped twisting. He’d have to make his escape later, this was a losing battle.

An acrid smell filled the room and a hand clamped over Sam’s face, pressing a dampened towel hard against his mouth and nose. He couldn’t help it- he twisted again, screaming for Dean and hating the muffled sound that came out. One of the demons chuckled and a second hand closed over his face, covering his nose and clamping down hard over his mouth.

He couldn’t breathe.

His lungs screamed and his struggling turned involuntary, muscles burning from lack of air. A blindfold dropped over his eyes but his vision was already too spotty to do him any good. Fireworks bloomed in the darkness, and his last thought was of his brother.  

 

 

Another day, another crossroads.

Dean lit the match and let it fall into the bowl, the assorted ingredients flaring up red and blue. The demon appeared right in the center of the devil’s trap, just like he’d hoped. He’d used someone else’s photo, the demon had materialized with a wide grin and the hope of an easy sale. The grin vanished when he saw who he was dealing with.

Dean sighed theatrically, spinning the blade absently between his fingers.

“Where’s my brother?”

 

 

Sam wasn’t sure whether he was awake. It was dark, and silent, and cold. He reached out slowly, hoping for a lightswitch and nothing sharp.

His hand caught and he realized there was something around his wrist. He pulled at it, and realized there was something around his other wrist, too.

He forced himself to stay calm, breathing slowly in and out, trying to find a center.

The darkness was overwhelming, the silence absolute.

He started at his feet. He could feel his toes moving, which meant no spinal cord injuries. The floor under him was cold, smooth, some kind of metal. He was on his knees and he shifted to make sure- his skin was flush with the metal, which meant he was at least partially undressed.

His breath came fast and ragged and he forced it to slow down. He didn’t have time for a panic attack. He focused on his hands, rubbing his thumb against the pad of his index finger. Then middle. Then ring. Then pinkie. Repeat.

His breathing slowed.  

 

After five days, Dean was forced to admit that maybe the crossroads demons were telling the truth. Maybe they really didn’t know what had happened to Sam.

It was unlikely, but he couldn’t deny that even his most persuasive techniques weren’t getting anything but the same story, over and over.

They hadn’t seen him.

They didn’t know who took him.

Time to go up the ladder.  

 

 

Sam ran through the list of what he knew.

He was alone. Either it was dark, or they’d messed with his eyes. They’d definitely messed with his ears. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the sounds of his own screaming.

The room was cold, not dangerously so, but enough to be uncomfortable on his bare skin.

Because his skin was bare, as far as he could tell, all of it. After a while, he’d had to piss too bad to hold it any more, and he hadn’t felt the hot liquid soak into his clothes.

He couldn’t feel to verify, his wrists were pulled wide, shackled to opposite edges of the enclosure. He could bend his arms only slightly, not enough to investigate the cuffs or the walls they were chained to.

He thought he was in some kind of cage- if he leaned forward until his shoulders screamed and the cuffs felt like they were cutting into his wrists, his forehead pressed against what felt like bars.

So, he was in a jail cell. Or a cage.

 

 

After a week, Dean caved and called Bobby. Asked what left sulfur but wasn’t a demon. Bobby had no idea.

Dean paced, hedged, but Bobby cut right through his crap and told him to spit it out.

He told him about Sam going missing. Bobby asked how long and sputtered when Dean told him. Asked how the hell he went a whole _week_ without asking for help.

Dean didn’t have an answer.

 

 

There was no way to measure time. When he woke up, he treated it like morning.

He tried to move, as much as the chains would let him. He assumed they were chains. He had no way of knowing for sure. When he dreamed, he saw himself from the outside, and in his dreams, they were chains.

There was a pressure on his left forearm, just below the elbow. He spent a long time twisting his arm back and forth, trying to figure out what was touching him. It felt like tape.

 

 

Fifteen psychics in three weeks. Fifteen real ones, who knows how many fakes.

Fakes were easy to spot, in Dean’s line of work. The real ones took one look at him and their faces fell into a combination of affection and pity. They knew something he didn’t, just by looking at him.

It wasn’t about Sam, they assured him. It was something else. Something they couldn’t say.

And then- every time- they’d lay their hand on his shoulder, like a gesture of solidarity.

Dean didn’t have time to dwell on it. He needed to find his brother.

None of them could help. They told him Sam was alive, but nothing else. They looked through Sam’s eyes and saw nothing but blackness. His voice was silent.

 

 

It’s an IV, Sam realized out of the blue. The tape around his arm was an IV.

The cuffs on his wrists had long since gone past chafing. The skin was rubbed raw and it hurt to move. His shoulders were numb almost constantly.

He’d long since accepted that he was going to die here.

For the first days (hours? weeks?) he’d expected his captors to confront him, if for no other reason than he would die without food or water. At the beginning he felt like he was starving, the ache in his stomach a dull, constant pain to match those in his shoulders and back and legs.

But he didn’t get thirsty. And he didn’t die. And after a while, he just got used to it.

They never came. Sometimes he woke up and imagined the tape was a little stickier, or he felt a little cleaner, but he might have been imagining it.

He imagined a lot of things nowadays.

 

 

The trouble with demons, Dean realized, is that they’re both ambitious and stupid.

The one strapped to the chair in front of him was promising him the world and more if he just let her go. She was half right.

Bobby’s panic room turned out to be an excellent demon interrogation room. It just needed the right demon, and after more than five weeks, he finally had the right demon.

She told him that he was insane, and he twisted the knife a little harder.

She told him she didn’t know, and he decided to kill her.

With the blade an inch from her heart she had a sudden memory, a guess, as to where Sam might be. Who might have him.

Dean thanked her for the intel, and killed her anyway.  

 

 

Sam thought maybe he read a study once on sensory deprivation and hallucinations. He wasn’t quite sure what the findings were, and anyway, it wouldn’t help him now.

In his mind he watches himself from somewhere high. Watches the demons circling him.

He knows they’re watching. He can’t see them or hear them but he knows. They’re just waiting for him to let his guard down, and when he does, they’ll tear into him. They’ll strip the flesh from his bones and devour him.

He thinks he might be sleep deprived.

There’s no way to tell. Sometimes he nods off, lets himself go slack against the chains until the pain in his shoulders wakes him up. He doesn’t know how long it takes. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.

He’s started hearing voices. His dad’s. Bobby’s. Dean’s. His own, sometimes.

He likes Dean’s the best. Dean promises that he’s looking, that he’s coming, that he’ll never give up.

Sometimes Sam thinks he can feel Dean’s hands on his skin, hot in the darkness as he grips his brother tight. He feels Dean kiss the tears from his cheeks and he knows he’s dreaming.

 

 

Dean knows he’s a walking cliché and he does not have a single fuck to give in response. The demon had said it was a small operation, but demons are liars and Dean likes guns.

The first two he sees get blown away on general principle, salt and iron rounds knocking the creatures right out of their hosts. Dean didn’t slow down.

By the time he runs into demon number five, he’s starting to suspect that this might actually _be_ a small operation, and so he pins the monster to the wall instead of killing it outright. Damn thing nearly pisses itself with fear.

“Where’s my brother?”

 

 

The light, when it finally came, was bright enough to be overpowering. Objectively, Sam realized he was in the dingy basement of a warehouse that was likely condemned. But it was more light than he’d seen in more than a month, and it was too much to handle. He shut his eyes, pressing his palms to his face, groaning at the pain and laughing because he could hear it.

Dean pulled him close and the two of them collapsed onto the floor, Sam barely able to stay upright under his own power and Dean not caring. He held Sammy close to his chest and rocked, the way he’d done when the boy was six and not too old to cry on his brother’s shoulder.

He looked up over Sam’s shoulder at the cage, all gleaming steel and dark, rusty-looking sigils. The manacles hung empty, crusted with blood where they’d rubbed his little brother’s wrists raw.

Sam let out a choked sob and Dean pulled him tighter, fingers tight in his hair.

 

There were clothes in the car but Sam ignored them, preferring to wrap himself in a blanket and stare out the window. He couldn’t regulate his voice, it was either too loud or too soft, sometimes swinging between the two of them in the space of a single sentence. He waited silently on the front seat while Dean bandaged his wrists, only showing signs of life when Dean went to put the first aid kit back in the trunk. The minute he let go of Sam’s wrists, the taller man lunged forward, catching Dean’s arm and holding on like a lifeline. Dean looked at him questioningly.

“Sorry,” Sam muttered, letting go.

Dean thought they should probably get a hotel, with sooner being better than later.

 

 

One thing was for sure. Sam wasn’t going on any hunts any time soon. He’d never pass for FBI with his voice doing that volume thing, but that was just the start. He was unsteady on his feet and he’d lost a lot of movement in his shoulders- whether or not it was permanent remained to be seen. He was doing something weird with his eyes, too, but Dean couldn’t figure out what, other than it seemed… off.

Dean got them a nice room for once, thinking of the bathtubs they had in chain hotel honeymoon suites, and sure enough, that’s exactly what they got.

He’d managed to get Sam upstairs without attracting too much attention (even a 6’4 shell shocked man in a blanket can only draw so many eyes at three AM) and locked the door behind them, quickly laying down a line of salt. He did the windows next, trying not to notice the fact that Sam hadn’t moved. His brother just watched him silently from the doorway. When Dean got closer he realized Sam was shaking.

“Hey, hey, I gotcha-” he started, and then Sam was on him like a damn lamprey, wrapping his gargantuan arms around his brother and holding tight. At first Dean thought maybe he was about to fall, but no, he was just….

Dean didn’t know what he was doing, but he was becoming extremely aware that his brother’s entire naked body was flush with his, and that started his brain down paths he’d sworn off a decade ago.

“Dude, you need a shower.”

Sam let go, suddenly sheepish.

“Yeah. Sorry. I don’t know… dunno why I did that.”

“Because you’re a weirdo and you have been since you were a baby. Can you handle the shower or do you want me to fill the tub?”

Sam’s eyes flicked to the bathroom, all white tile and sterile lighting.

“Bath,” he said firmly.

 

 

It was an excuse really, and Dean hated himself for making it. It was just gauze, they had, like, a thousand miles of it in the car. Sam could change the bandages a dozen times a day for the next year and they’d _still_ have shit left over.

It didn’t stop the sentence from coming out- “you can’t get your hands wet” and god, it was a line, and a shitty one at that, and Dean kicked himself the moment it was out of his mouth. He’d been tracking Sam down for five weeks only to lose him an hour later because some loose wire in his brain gave him the hots for his _brother-_

Sam looked at Dean and then at his hands and then said “okay” and stepped into the hot water.

And that’s how Dean ended up on the side of the tub, shirtsleeves rolled up and helping Sam wash his hair the way he had back when they were kids, and generally feeling like the biggest piece of shit on the planet.

 

Dean blamed it on the proximity sometimes, they’d grown up sitting in each other’s laps (sometimes literally, if they needed to share the backseat of the Impala with something big) and god knew John wasn’t in any state to take care of a kid.

So Dean was the one who cut his brother’s hair, and kissed his scrapes and bruises (never boo-boos because even at seven Dean had a _little_ pride) and made sure he brushed his teeth and washed behind his ears. Shower time was playtime because usually that was the only way to get the headstrong little kid into the water.

 

Dean smirked, pouring a cup of water over the crown of Sam’s head and remembering the endless shrieking fits the kid had thrown over bath time. He was afraid of soap in his eyes.

Dean was already learning to do field stitching by then.

 

Probably no one was taken by surprise more than Dean the day Sam emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and Dean did a double-take. Somewhere in all the running and sparring and hunting and relentless growth spurts, his brother had gotten muscular. Dean blinked, willing Sammy’s body to return to the skinny ten-year-old he could have sworn was standing there just _yesterday,_ but it didn’t work.

And, okay, that’s just a casual observation. “Hey little bro, you got ripped.” It’s not like he had an opinion on it or anything.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself for six solid months until finally whacking one out in the shower, with the image of his little brother’s body shining behind his eyelids.

 

Simple avoidance had never been an option; case in point. Working his way over Sam’s body, Dean knew every scar and freckle as well as he knew his own. He scrubbed his way down Sam’s arms, noting lines and marks that he’d stitched up years ago, before Sam learned to do his own.

The ones on Sam’s back were exclusively Dean’s handiwork, as were most of the ones on his legs. Dean grit his teeth and willed himself not to get red when he worked his way up Sam’s thighs, washing away the weeks of sweat and dust and grime.

 

He was going to jerk off to this later, he knew it already, there was no use denying it and he was _absolutely_ the biggest creep to ever live.

 

“I think you’re good,” Dean said at last, and supported Sam’s elbow when he rose.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. God knows you’ve taken care of me.”

Dean inclined his head toward where the duffels lay on the bed, looking soiled and worn against the white blanket.

“Go put your pjs on. I’m gonna take a shower.”

Sam’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded.

“Leave the door open?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

 

Dean got dressed before he left the bathroom, pulling on an old pair of sweats and a tshirt. He climbed into bed and reached for the light, only to be interrupted by a strangled “ _no!_ ”

“You need something?”

Sam was on his side, so close to the edge Dean was actually worried he might fall.

“Just… leave it on?”

“Yeah. Yeah, whatever you need.”

 

Twenty minutes after that, neither of them was even close to sleeping. Sam kept nodding off and jerking awake. Dean was just watching him, wondering whether sleeping pills would help or hurt.

“You want something to help you sleep?”

Sam shook his head. He bit his lip and a minute later, pushed the blankets off.

“What are you-” Dean started, but then Sam was climbing into bed next to him.

“Remember when we used to write messages?” Sam asked, and Dean nodded. He remembered. Nights when John came home drunk and they were too scared to wake him. They’d write messages on each other, one letter at a time mapped out with a fingertip.

Sam slid under the blankets and Dean tried not to notice the heat coming off his brother’s body.

“Turn over,” Sam said quietly, and Dean obeyed, rolling until his back was to Sam.

And then Sam’s fingers were on his back, tracing letters between his shoulders. He clenched his eyes shut because god, he did not deserve this.

_Thank you_

“What happened to you, Sammy?”

Sam didn’t answer, just reached for his brother and pulled him close. His body was huge and hot and solid against Dean’s back, his arm draped over Dean’s waist, the way they used to sleep when they were kids. Dean’s entire reality shrunk to the feeling of Sam’s fingertips resting gently on his belly, and how he was sporting a semi just from the thought of it and he was _definitely_ going to hell. The special hell, for people who lusted after their traumatized little brothers.

Sam’s body relaxed into his and a few minutes later, he was asleep. Dean listened to the rise and fall of his brother’s breath, a sound he’d worried he’d never hear again, and when morning came, he was still awake.  

 

The hotel had breakfast. Sam got himself a bowl of fruit and promptly threw it all up.

It didn’t seem to surprise him.

Dean booked them for another night.

 

Dean wasn’t surprised at all when Sam got into bed with him again. He hadn’t been more than two feet from Dean since he woke up, except to go to the bathroom and even then, he wouldn’t shut the door.

 

There were track marks on his arm. Dean asked, but Sam wouldn’t answer. He looked at them with a little bit of surprise, like he hadn’t seen them before. Dean couldn’t imagine what they’d been drugging him with, or why.  

 

Around lunchtime Sam managed to eat half a sandwich and keep it down.

Dean changed his bandages, very carefully unwrapping the soiled gauze, wincing in sympathy when it caught on the scabs.

Sam’s wrists looked better already. With the blood washed off it was clear that the wounds were wide, but shallow. The skin had been chafed, not torn. Dean dressed it with neosporin and gauze, hoping to hell there wouldn’t be an infection.

 

Now, for the second night in a row, Sam was sleeping next to him. This time, Dean’s exhaustion overcame his anxiety and he fell asleep, his fingers interlaced with Sam’s.

 

After the third day, they had to leave the hotel. It wasn’t safe to use the card any longer than that, and in any case, they had to get back to their normal lives.

Well, normal for them, anyway.

Sam was up and walking more or less normally, though there was still something going on with his eyes. And he was tending to hold his arms out a little further than was necessary.

“Are your shoulders bothering you?”

Sam started, then shook his head and made an effort to put his arms back where they should go.

 

When they got in the car, Sam looked out the window for all of five minutes before lying down over the driver’s seat, laying his head on Dean’s lap.

“Uh, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You tired? The backseat’s empty if you want to sleep.”

“Can I just stay like this?”

On the one hand, Dean wanted his brother touching every inch of his body, now and forever, but on the other hand, Sam’s face was currently in frankly _dangerous_ proximity to Dean’s dick, which was beginning to rouse and take interest.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Please?”

Sam tilted his head to look up, and god, those hazel puppy dog eyes were good for anything. Sam could ask for the world and Dean would give it to him.

“Sure, Sammy.”

Sam smiled, nestling down into the seat (like a fucking puppy, swear to god) and resting his cheek on Dean’s thigh. Dean shifted a little bit, trying to get the stick shift out of drive, but it was hopeless. In the end he just kept driving, one hand on the wheel, one playing idly with Sam’s hair.

 

“It was dark,” Sam said after a week.

A week of sleeping in the same bed, cuddled up together like kids (lovers) with a night light. A week of protein shakes because Sam couldn’t keep more than a few bites of solid food down. A week of whispers and shouts because Sam couldn’t figure out how to talk normally.

“Where they kept you?”

Sam nodded.

“Dark and quiet. I-”

His voice froze then, and Dean tried to roll over and face him, but Sam held him still. His fingertips skated over Dean’s shoulderblades.

_I knew you’d come_

That made one of them, Dean thought. There were times- whole days- when he was sure he’d never see Sam again.

It was nice to know one of them had faith in him, at least.

“Can’t get rid of me that easy, little brother.”

 

Sam got better at keeping food down. He didn’t need the radio on _all_ the time.

After a month, they could turn the lights off in the room at night.

They did a hunt, and then another one.

Sam did fine.

He didn’t say much else about his time in captivity. Just that it was cold, and dark, and quiet.

Very slowly, things went back to normal. With one exception.

Sam had developed a clinginess he hadn’t had since he was five. He was sleeping in Dean’s bed every night now. They didn’t talk about it.

He walked closer than brothers really should, sometimes hooking his arm around Dean’s and sometimes putting his hand in Dean’s pocket and lacing their fingers together. They’d eat out and he’d sit on the same side of the booth, only opposite if he had to. And if he had to, he stretched his legs under the table, making sure his calf met Dean’s all the time.

Dean didn’t say one god damn word, walking around in a constant state of the most divine sexual frustration any pervert had ever had the pleasure of enduring.

It couldn’t last.

 

It came to a head five weeks after he got Sam back, almost to the day, and wasn’t that fucking ironic.

They were coming back from the diner where they’d had dinner, and dinner had been great. Sam was in a good mood, being his normal chatterbox self about something nerdy pertaining to the latest case they’d caught (where did he learn these things?) and Dean had listened with a smile and stolen his beer.

They were crossing the motel parking lot and holding hands, (because Sam held hands now and Dean wasn’t about to deny his traumatized little brother anything that simple) and Sam stopped and looked over at him (and there was this light from the pool throwing mottled green shadows over everything and music was playing from the diner) and Dean didn’t even think, he just leaned up and pressed his mouth to Sam’s.

If he had planned it (and he hadn’t) he would have aimed for sweet and chaste, but Sam opened for him immediately and Dean delved inside, sucking Sam’s lip gently into his mouth. Sam tasted like almonds and beer and-

Dean fell back like he’d been struck by lightning. Sam was staring at him wide-eyed and he stammered out something like an apology or an excuse (did it really matter) and fled back to the room.

Of course, where do you hide from someone who’s sharing your hotel room?

Not in the room, that’s for damn sure, Dean realized (belatedly) when Sam’s card dropped into the slot half an hour later.

He did the totally mature adult thing and dove into bed, facing the wall and pulling the blankets over his head and pretending to be asleep.

He heard rustling, probably just Sam packing up his clothes so he could take his duffel and hitch the fuck away from his fucked up older brother.

Dean didn’t expect that Sam would want to talk about it. He didn’t expect Sam would want an explanation. He didn’t even expect Sam to say goodbye.

He really, _really_ didn’t expect Sam to climb into bed next to him, pulling the covers up and nestling against Dean like nothing had happened.

Sam’s hands were strong and deliberate on his back.

_me_

_too_

If there was a just and loving god, he had never looked fondly upon the fates of Dean Winchester, and it wasn’t until this exact moment that Dean realized why.

Because there was only so much good that could come to any one man, and as he rolled over and pressed his mouth to Sam’s, he realized he’d used it all in one fell swoop.

And he was utterly content with that.

“God, I’ve wanted this.”

Sam responded by rolling his hips into Dean’s, and Dean realized he’d stripped before getting into bed and god, how could one guy get this lucky?

He rolled them over until Sam was on his back, Dean straddling his hips. The lamp cast a muted glow over everything, and in it’s light Sam’s skin glowed gold. Dean leaned in again, capturing his brother’s mouth and delving inside, exploring and tasting and sucking and nipping. Sam moaned and the sound went straight to his dick, currently rock hard and very pleased about this turn of events.

He pulled away from Sam’s mouth and kissed a line down his throat, over his shoulder, across his chest, anywhere he’d never kissed before and that was everywhere.

Sam whined, pushing his hips up into Dean, his erection pushing insistently into Dean’s thigh.

“Little impatient there, Sam?”

Sam responded by plunging his hands between them, taking hold of Dean’s cock through his pants and stroking and oh jesus _fuck-_

“Okay okay point made.”

He kissed his way back up the hollow of Sam’s throat, leaving marks he knew he’d still see in the morning.

“I want to do this right,” he murmured, nipping at Sam’s ear. “I want to tease you for hours and make sure every single inch of you gets the attention it deserves. I want to take you apart piece by piece until you’re so wrecked all you can do is beg me to come and after all that, I want to give you the greatest fuck you’ve ever had in your life. I want you to come so hard you get _dehydrated._ ”

Dean reached between them and took hold of Sam’s cock, stroking gently and letting his thumb slide across the slick head.

“But I’m not gonna last that long tonight. Them’s the breaks. So how ‘bout I fuck you open nice and slow and then suck your cock ‘til you come in my mouth. Sound good?”

If Sam’s incoherent moaning and thrusting was any indication, it sounded good to him.

Dean scrambled for his duffel, digging out the lube he kept in the side pocket because- well, because reasons. He drizzled it over his fingers, using probably more than he needed.

Sam was laying back on the bed, the covers kicked off, reaching for him. Dean laughed and fell into the embrace, laying kiss after kiss onto his brother’s mouth. Sam arched up into him, legs wrapping around his hips and dragging him in. Dean’s arm was pinned between them, hand delving deeper between Sam’s legs. His slick fingers ghosted over Sam’s balls and he groaned, biting down on Dean’s lip. Dean pulled back, trying not to come in his pants like a damn teenager.

His fingers found Sam’s hole, rubbing little circles around the velvet skin there. He hesitated, looking down at his brother.

Sam was beautiful, hazel eyes meeting Dean’s with such wanton _need_ -

And then he gasped as Dean’s fingers slid inside him, two at once because Sam could handle it. And god, he was tight, the hot slick walls of his ass tightening around Dean’s fingers, and Dean knew he wasn’t going to last.

He shoved his pants down, practically _crying_ at the feeling of his cock on Sam’s skin at last. He took them both in hand, stroking them together as he continued fingering Sam open.

“If you only knew, little brother, how long I’ve wanted you like this.”

He added a third finger and Sam writhed underneath him, begging without words because words were beyond him now. Dean leaned forward.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he murmured in Sam’s ear. “Gonna fill that pretty ass of yours up with my come, rub it right in so you’re marked as mine forever.”

Sam’s legs hooked around his hips, dragging him in to a chorus of _fuck yes_ and _please, Dean._

Dean withdrew his fingers, lining up his cock and pressing the head against Sam’s waiting hole. He leaned down, mouthing gently at Sam’s throat.

“You want it, Sam? Want your big brother’s cock filling your ass?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sam breathed, and Dean pushed inside.

For a second, he couldn’t move. Sam was impossibly hot and tight around him, shuddering breaths wracking his frame, and Dean knew if he moved a muscle he was going to come right then and there.

So instead he waited, balls-deep with Sam’s legs clamped around him like a vice and his little brother’s breath hot on his throat. Sam arched up into him, seeking the friction of his skin against his cock, and Dean obliged. Sam’s cock matched the rest of his body, long and thick and _huge_ and Dean shuddered slightly as he imagined their positions reversed.

Sam was writhing and twisting under him, thrusting up into his fist and sliding back onto his cock. It wasn’t an easy position, Dean could see a sheen of sweat rising on his body as he worked himself back and forth. He took pity on him then, leaning down and into him, pushing deep. He rolled his hips against Sam, going slow, relishing the dragging friction of his brother’s tight hole.

He twisted his fist on the upstroke, dragging a smear of lube and precome over the head of Sam’s cock and he must have liked that because his body clamped down _hard_ and all Dean heard was “ _god, I’m gonna-_ ” and then Sam was coming in his hand, hot and thick and sticky.

And Dean had an urge he’d never before considered in his entire life, which was to lift his hand to his mouth and lick the come off the crease of his thumb, and before he could act on it, the thought was driving him over the edge and he slammed into Sam’s body and came.  

 

“I usually last longer than that.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean rolled over, somehow managing to meet Sam’s eyes despite being covered in their mutual sweat and sexual fluids.

“I do. It’s been a while. Like, weeks.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean frowned, because this was important.

“Sam, I feel like you’re casting doubt on my sexual prowess.”

“I’m sure you have amazing endurance,” Sam murmured, nuzzling down so that his head was resting on Dean’s shoulder.

“And now you’re patronizing me. This is not a good start.”

“I’ll wake you up with a blowjob,” Sam muttered, already half asleep. “You can impress me with your longevity then.”

Dean blinked, staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah, okay.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> > _"... going slow, relishing the dragging friction of his brother’s tight hole "_
> 
>  
> 
> [I'm so far gone.](https://d.gr-assets.com/hostedimages/1448761436ra/17185395.gif) I swear. I could quit writing and become a nun right now and I'd still get to heaven and St. Peter be like [nope.](http://45.media.tumblr.com/4b57aa24c92d9d5a7e68c7c3c4a4eede/tumblr_mwwsz9s2nj1rziwwco1_500.gif) There's no redeeming what you've done. 
> 
> I understand that on a certain level, you have to commit to what you're writing. No matter how unrealistic or out of character or downright ridiculous, you have to write it the way it is and not apologize for it.   
> On the other hand I can't seem to stop kinkshaming myself. I'm sitting there merrily typing away, playing up the brother!kink because it seemed like fun when I was young and didn't know the things I know now.   
> And then I write that line and even as I'm writing it I'm like.... [ugh.](https://quizzicalllama.files.wordpress.com/2014/03/horrible.gif?w=640) I am unloveable. 
> 
> Am I going to stop?   
> No I am not. 
> 
>  
> 
> Husband left town to go to NAB in Las Vegas, so I have the whole house to myself for a week. That means I get to turn my terrible music up loud and sing in the shower and eat too much cheese.


End file.
